When I first saw your gallery
|
I liked the ones of ladies
|
Then you began to hang up me
|
You studied to portray me
|
In ice and greens
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And old blue jeans
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And naked in the roses
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Then you got into funny scenes
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That all your work discloses
|
|
"Lady, don't love me now I am dead
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I am a saint, turn down your bed
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I have no heart," that's what you said
|
You said, "I can be cruel
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But let me be gentle with you"
|
|
Somewhere in a magazine
|
I found a page about you
|
I see that now it's Josephine
|
Who cannot be without you
|
I keep your house in fit repair
|
I dust the portraits daily
|
Your mail comes here from everywhere
|
The writing looks like ladies'
|
|
"Lady, please love me now, I am dead
|
I am a saint, turn down your bed
|
I have no heart," that's what you said
|
You said, "I can be cruel
|
But let me be gentle with you"
|
|
I gave you all my pretty years
|
Then we began to weather
|
And I was left to winter here
|
While you went west for pleasure
|
And now you're flying bock this way
|
Like some lost homing pigeon
|
They've monitored your brain, you say
|
And changed you with religion
|
|
"Lady, please love me now I was dead
|
I am no saint, turn down your bed
|
Lady, have you no heart," that's what you said
|
Well, I can be cruel
|
But let me be gentle with you
|
|
When I first saw your gallery
|
I liked the ones of ladies
|
But now their faces follow me
|
And all their eyes look shady
|
|
-----------------
|
The Gallery
|
| Joni Mitchell |
